


The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins.

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feelings, Gen, John Is In A Coma, Johnlock - Freeform, fall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 18:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11258325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect





	The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins.

Blood pumping through his veins, thrilled by the chase, Sherlock and John were pursuing a man on the rooftops of Whitehall at the break of day.

The man - not in the prime of youth but still highly athletic as he had demonstrated not long ago as he jumped through a window and crawled up an adjacent wall - had been reported by a street police man as he was breaking and entering in Whitehall.

Naturally, Mycroft had been immediately notified: even if Scotland Yard sent its best team led by D.I. Lestrade, he sent his brother and his faithful companion – much more athletic and much more knowledgeable of the streets of London and above all, with top-level security clearance and more utility than most other officials in England. Mycroft Holmes occupied a minor position in the British government, but he used it to the best of his extended, seemingly limitless abilities. It would be incredibly more beneficial to everyone – especially the British government in the immediate future – that Sherlock believe that Mycroft was indebted to him: if _he_ had informed his brother, precious time would have been lost over unnecessary fuss and arguing.

John was shorter and slower than Sherlock. Nevertheless, he had kept in shape out of habit after the Army had invalidated him home from the war and had quickly found it incredibly needed due to the intense physical activity required by Sherlock’s lifestyle. He was thus able to keep up and hold his own so as not to be a hindrance to Sherlock.

The man in from of them was running as if hounds of hell were running after him – and to be fair, Sherlock could sometimes be qualified as such – trying to escape a very unpleasant outcome to his action, doing somersaults and other elaborate figures as dusk was descending upon the city and it became harder to see clearly. John had stayed in shape, but his sportive prowess was limited and he was envious of anyone who had more than a modicum of it. Chasing the man had been difficult at first: he appeared to be a parkour runner while neither Sherlock nor John were and they had had to take the emergency staircases to reach the thief who was already on the roof. Once all three of them were on the top of the building, the chase quickly became swift and steady as the various obstacles on their way did not require the use of any elaborate jumping techniques.

John had focussed on the silhouette of the man to catch him and nothing more. He had not observed the developed physical agility the man had displayed, nor had he inferred his choice of activity. When the man disappeared – he had become little more than a silhouette because of the settling dusk – John simply followed, jumping over the rooftop. The man had used the balcony beneath to produce momentum so he would not fall and could continue on his way. John, however, had not been so lucky. He hit his back on the balcony under him, tried to catch the second one but failed, his palms too sweaty from the heat, the run and the panic of falling. His fall had been slowed by the obstacles but he still fell, nearly impaling himself on an open gate. He finished his course crashing onto the pavement while Sherlock could only watch, still shouting John’s name, his arms outstretched toward his companion in a useless attempt to catch him.

 

Sherlock had stopped his course in time, but John had not. He stood there, shocked by the scene that was happening in front of his very eyes. It was as if time had slowed down but he couldn’t do anything. Sherlock’s eyes were fixed into the void where John had jumped, unaware that he’d fall a greater height than what he expected. As John cried out, Sherlock was taken out of his shock and ran to the bottom of the building. He reached it when John had already hit the pavement, blood pooling underneath his head. He rushed to his side, crouched next to him, touched him, desperate to find a pulse, he couldn’t find any, he could not, what was happening? This could not be happening, he had come back when he knew that John was safe. John was not _safe_ now, he was lying on the ground, blood around him.

 

‘Sherlock. Sherlock. Snap out of it. You need to fight it.’ The meaning of the words did not register in Sherlock’s brain. There was nothing. Nothing but the lack of pulse and the echo of John crying out as he fell.

‘Send an ambulance. Injured civilian. Late thirties, fell off a building. Breathing? Hang on.’ Lestrade came up to John’s listless form and put the back of his hand to John’s mouth. ‘Faint, very faint. Ah, pulse? The same,’ he added, touching his fingers to John’s wrists. ‘There’s another victim. Well no, he’s not injured. Violently shocked. Yeah, partners. Of course. We’ll wait for you. Thanks,’ Lestrade’s voice was not shaking. He had to keep calm – for Sherlock who seemed to be out of his wits, breathing fast, rocking back and forth. ‘Sherlock,’ Lestrade said, trying to get to him. ‘Sherlock, the ambulance is on its way. John will make it. You know he will. Breathe, Sherlock. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And repeat,’ he said in a firm, soothing voice, facing the detective who looked little more than a lost child at this very moment, forcing him to take his eyes off John and follow his example. Lestrade dared not touch him more than pressing a hand to his shoulder – Sherlock was not one for displays of physical reassurance (or anything involving touching, for that matter), and doing so at this moment would be catastrophic. Even if it might get him out of his fugue, any touch would likely send him into a fit of panic and he’d viciously lash out.

 

The ambulance arrived, the paramedics had to tear Sherlock away from John and take care of him as well. ‘Sir. Sir, your partner is in a dangerous condition. You need to let us work. You need to let us help him. Here, put that around your shoulder,’ said a woman as she put a weighted blanket on him. ‘You have to breathe. Deep breath in, through your nose, your belly must expand. Slowly breathe out through your mouth, all the air out of your lungs. Good. You’re doing good. Continue. I’m going to stay with you to help you through it. There you go, breathe evenly. You’ll make your partner proud. Come with me, let’s take a few steps, try to put your mind to something else. Your partner is going to be all right, he’s being taken care of by professionals,’ she said as a team of paramedics took John into the ambulance.

Sherlock, guided by the woman, settled absent-mindedly in the emergency vehicle. His whole focus was on John. Now that his panic had abated, he could hear the slow but steady beeping of the heart monitor.

 

Despite their adventures regularly resulting in either of them having to go on a trip to the A&E, it was not easy to obtain an authorization for Sherlock to be in the same ambulance as John. Mycroft Holmes, however, was not a man to be trifled with: D.I. Lestrade’s request had become a demand issued by one of the most prominent figures in the British government. He issued another on behalf of his brother: that the ambulance be rerouted to the best hospital in London. He knew that Sherlock would not be favourable to any other facility when it came to the good doctor’s health.

 

Although his brother was an important figure, Sherlock Holmes was made to wait outside the doors to the surgery theatre, fidgeting anxiously until John was brought back to him.

When he was, Gregory Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson took it in turns to wait alongside Sherlock: not only was John their friend as well as Sherlock, but they also knew that their presence would help him through waiting, an atrocity for such an impatient man as him. Not to mention that Sherlock had made it clear that he would not leave John’s side until he had recovered. If not in so many words, his actions were transparent: pacing in the corridor then the room, ignoring all bodily functions more than he usually did, refusing to go back to his flat despite being exhausted and most probably bored…

More than once a fresh cup of tea appeared in front of him – let it not be said that Martha Hudson was anything but prepared. Lestrade had offered to bring him cold cases to occupy his mind when Sherlock started to become restless.

‘Caring is not an advantage,’ had declared Mycroft to a red-eyed, tousled and unkempt Sherlock after he had done nothing but wake for four days. ‘You will be pleased to learn that the thief has been apprehended. The papers he stole have been restored to us, of course. His apprehension has been swift and he promptly gave a detailed account of his reasons for his action. Blackmail. Yet another proof that caring is not an advantage,’ he added in a sententious tone.

Sherlock remained silent, his focus on John and the machines linked to him, awaiting the merest change in John’s vitals that would indicate his condition was improving.

‘Sherlock,’ said Lestrade as he entered the room. ‘I’ve just got word from Scotland Yard. The man you’ve chased after is in custody at the station. I’ve had a word with the Super Intendent and he’s agreed to you talking to him.’

‘It will hardly make any difference, Detective Inspector. The man has already confessed, there’s nothing more to it,’ cut Mycroft with distant politeness.

‘Holmes,’ muttered Lestrade to himself, shaking his head. ‘Emotions really aren’t your division, are they?’ he added more loudly. ‘Even you must appreciate the importance of such a meeting to your brother,’ he said lowering his voice. ‘Facing the one responsible for Joh – ‘

‘ _I_ am resp – ‘

‘You certainly are not!’

‘If I had _told_ him – ‘

‘Don’t you start.’

‘If you two don’t mind, I will take my leave now,’ said Mycroft. Neither Sherlock nor Greg answered.

‘I didn’t _think_ – ‘

Sherlock cut himself short. He had seen a slight tremor in John’s hand. Glancing at the screen monitor he saw that his blood pressure had increased – slightly, but it was a step in the right direction. Greg had fallen silent beside him.

‘Call Mrs. Hudson, and bring her here.’

Greg nodded, understanding that Sherlock wanted, needed to be alone with John when he woke up.

 

Now left alone in the room with John, Sherlock sat in the chair next to the bed and took John’s hand in his, eyes going back and forth from John’s figure to the numbers on the monitor, anxiety written all over his face.

His thoughts, usually swift as tempestuous waters, had come to a near standstill when John fell. His waking hours had been spent in heavy silence, feeling numb and empty. His every thoughts and emotions were now boiling, trying to break free to the surface but Sherlock did not want to let them out: what if John were not really waking up?

 

A whimper broke the heavy silence. John’s heart rate and blood pressure had steadily gone up and he was now fighting to open his eyes. His hands were trapped under…something. He felt weak as a kitten, head dizzy, breathing laborious. _I don’t feel threatened. I must be in a safe place_ , he reasoned. _Hang on. What’s that irritating beeping noise?_

‘John,’ a deep voice said, relief evident.

‘Sherlock,’ he replied after a second. ‘Thirsty.’

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, of course,’ he heard. ‘Stupid idiot,’ came Sherlock’s mumbling a split second later. John was still fighting to open his eyes, exhausted by what he had been through but hearing his friend admonish himself brought a smile to his face. He felt the weight of a glass in his hand and brought it to his lips, fresh water ran through his mouth, healing his parched throat. He took another glass of water and opened his eyes. It didn’t take a genius to understand he had been out cold for several days and that Sherlock had taken it pretty badly: he was unshaven, sporting a 3 days’ stubble, clothes crumpled and it was just very possible he had not changed, his eyes were red and…puffy…from… _crying_?

Sherlock Holmes. Crying. Apparently not leaving his side. _I must have hurt myself pretty badly_.

‘Sherlock?’ he called, attempting a smile.

‘You’ve been out for four days. Your constants were low and you went into a coma. You’ll most likely be weak for a few days,’ Sherlock replied in an attempt at cold detachment.

‘You can drop the act, you know. I may not be very observant, but there are…things even _I_ can’t miss,’ he said after he’d emptied yet another glass of water.

‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Sherlock, acting perplexed.

‘I mean I know. I _have_ been there, too,’ he replied softly.

Sherlock’s uptight, haughty air faded, replaced with a guilty, concerned look.

‘Is this what it felt like? For you? When I – oh God, John, I’m sorry. I’m so, _so_ , sorry…’

‘Sh, Sherlock. I am here and all right – considering – and so are you,’ replied John soothingly.

‘I am so relieved you came back, John. I…’

‘I know. Sleep, now. I’ll be here when you wake up,’ he added reassuringly as Sherlock looked at him, unsure at the idea of laying his eyes off John. ‘I feel exhausted. I’ll go back to sleep.’

 

When John closed his eyes, Sherlock waited a few minutes, weighing the pros and cons before settling against John. He heaved a contented smile as he, too, closed his eyes.


End file.
